Persephone
by Sinangeled
Summary: Angelus is essentially Hades and Buffy is his Persephone. Dark.


Persephone. B/Aus. AU. Angelus is essentially Hades, and Buffy is his Persephone. Dark.

Disclaimer: Do not own.

xxxxxx

Quentin Travers was deathly afraid. All his life, he had feared nothing, he had been in control. He had enemies, but a man in his position, who had done the things he had done, was bound to. He had hurt a lot of people, and he had few friends. But then, one didn't become the head of an international criminal empire without breaking a few skulls.

He had never feared reparation for his crimes. Born to the elite upper crest of London, he had grown up in utter luxury, his every whim catered to since birth. He had been denied nothing in life since he had been born, and when he had been 16, his desires had come to include death. He had never taken the word 'no' well. The only one capable of saying it to him was his father, the only person he had ever truly feared. So when the lovely Charlotte had denied him, he had denied her of her life.

It had only taken his father 21 hours to find out about it before he was summoned to the study. And congratulated. As it turned out, his father's business, The Council, had never been quite as legitimate as he had been lead to believe. And he had just proven to his father that he had been ready to take it over. His life had been laid out before him. He would eventually control the company, and it would be up to him to lead it into the next century.

"I am not a young man," his father had told him. "I do a good job running this enterprise of ours. I do it very well. But there will come a time when it would be better for me to step down. Now, boy, tell me what you think."

He had thought it a dream come true.

His life had been perfect. Anything he wished for was his. Anything he wanted done, was. His father had quickly instilled the limits into his head, and he was not so much a fool to break them. He had never brought any bad PR to The Council.

When he was 30, and his father was 68, he had taken over in full, having worked under his father since his graduation from Oxford. He had expanded and modernized, turning The Council into a new kind of organization. If he weren't being modest, and he usually was not, he could say that he had caused more destruction and horror than any other being. Perhaps Hitler came out ahead, but he was, in Travers opinion, a quack, so it didn't count.

Life had been good, and death wasn't half bad either, provided he wasn't the one dying.

But now something had changed. Something was stalking him. Following him everywhere, even in his sleep. He couldn't escape it and he even feared for his sanity.

_/Blood was dripping from the ceiling into his open mouth, and skeletons held open his jaws. A man reached down his throat to pull out his heart…./_

The pink roses that had occupied a vase in his manor turned black and wilted when he had touched them…

_/the shadowy black figure reaching for him/the butcher carving out his heart/the dead child biting him/flash/dead songbirds dropping from the trees/flash…._

The lights were out. His breath came in and out in short gasps. The air was unnaturally cold, and he could see the air expelled from his lungs twirling up… into little skulls.

"Who's there?" he snarled. The doors creaked open. A man walked in.

"I am," he said, "I'm not early, am I? I believe the appointment was for nine thirty sharp, correct?" Travers breathed more easily. There had been something about an appointment before all this madness had begun.

"No, no, do sit down," he said. He gestured to the chair and the other man sat down. The air was still and silent except for the heavy breathing. The other man shook his head abruptly.

"It's rather strange," he said in a tone very different from the one he had been using earlier, "How does one tell the object of his most intense hatred that he's going to hell. I pictured it differently you know. It's not as nice as I imagined it. But then, revenge never is, I suppose."

Travers started. "Who the hell are you?" he hissed, whipping out a gun and pushing the button for the guards.

"Rupert Giles. You may know me as Ripper, but it would likely be of more use to you to know that I am the grieving widower of one Jenny Calendar, also known as Janna Kalderash, whom you had murdered, along with her people, two months ago."

And he had. Travers had wanted the land, needed it for his developments. The Kalderash people had been in his way. It was not a good place to be. They had all been slaughtered and dismembered before their bodies had been destroyed with acid and buried.

Why weren't the guards there yet?

"There is no time here," the man informed him, his face white with rage. "So your guards aren't going to be coming anytime soon. You'll just vanish Travers, like so many before you."

"You're insane!" Quentin sneered, though ice was dripping through his veins. A shadow crossed the man's face.

"I suppose I might be…" he said. "I'm dammed too now…" The man gave a barkish laugh. "It doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore."

Rupert Giles unbuttoned his sleeves and shoved them up. He pulled out a knife, his hand trembling slightly. Travers watched with wide eyes as the man slashed open his palms. The man spoke in a language he couldn't identify and his voice built powerfully. Shouting the last word, the man, Ripper, fell to the ground, apparently dead. The air was still and silent and cold. Travers was gasping air in head moving wildly, looking for a sign of danger. There was nothing. His breathing slowed.

The man had been mad. What had happened was going to be written off as a hallucination. He just needed to get a little more rest, maybe go on a vacation. He turned around and then-

"Looking for me?" a man asked. Travers started. The man looked bored, but faintly amused. Tall, dark, youngish, but clearly a man. Travers would have guessed late twenties. He cut an intimidating figure, dressed in black leather pants and a dark red velvet shirt. A hedonist, then. His face was cruel and attractive, with a strong patrician nose and dark eyes. Cutting cheekbones and thin, cruel lips completed the picture.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Travers demanded. The man raised an eyebrow contemptuously.

"That's it?" he muttered, "no standards anymore." The look he gave Travers was akin to the way one would look at some disgusting bug they were about to crush. Travers looked back defiantly and opened his mouth to speak.

"Ah, ah, ah," the man (monster) said. And he smiled revealing far too many teeth. "Don't speak, it does not appear to be your strong point. Not that you appear to have any. No finesse, really. But the invitation has already been sent, and what can I do but entertain you at this point?"

Travers opened his mouth again but before he could get a word out, everything went dark. The last thing he could remember was looking into a pair of cruel red eyes as unholy laughter filled the air.

xxxxxxx

Travers let out a horse yell as the man (_not a man, a demon, some horrible nightmare creature_) pinned him to the wall ignoring his struggles and quickly snapping him into manacles.

"It's been a while," Angelus said negligently. "I really usually don't get involved myself, but Ripper was a special guy, you know? A powerful force for whatever side he chose. Thanks to you, I win him."

Was it like a chessboard? Each side collecting players? It occurred to Travers that if the Devil were real, if hell was, than would God be as well? And God was merciful (_Heavenly father, forgive us our sins_) Could he be saved?

"Help!" he screamed. "God, help me, please!" he was sobbing openly now.

A harsh laugh sounded out. "Do you think he cares? Really? Look at yourself Travers. It's all about the greater good with him. He'd never save you, never condemn some innocent to take your place! You stupid fool!"

He laughed again, the horrible sound echoing around the room. But then abruptly he stopped. Travers opened his eyes. Blood was running down the walls. And the monster who was tormenting him suddenly looked…concerned. He could faintly make out the sound of a woman crying (_how often had he been the cause of that sound?) _

"Fuck," breathed his tormentor. He ran up the stairs of the dungeon without a backwards glance.

xxxxxxx

Angelus took the stairs two at a time(_she was crying, she mustn't cry or ever be upset_). Why did it have to be this way? Whatever he did, whatever creation he granted her, no matter what he tried, she was never happy. Just the opposite even.

Why couldn't he make her happy?

She was in her garden, her wraithlike attendants hovering around her nervously.

"Leave us," he commanded them. The floated away leaving him with his cruel goddess. The tears that illuminated her lovely eyes made them seem even more green as she turned them on him.

"Let me go," she whispered. He sat down beside her where she had tucked herself into a ball, her knees at her chin, and wrapped an arm around her. He pulled her into his lap and she sobbed against his shirt.

"I can't" he said. "I won't" She sobbed harder and dug her nails into his shirt. He could feel them cutting into his skin and the blood rushing to the surface. All the while one of his hands clutched her to him, while the other stroked her back, smoothing the white silk of her dress.

"Shhh, shhh," he murmured to her as she sobbed. She made hiccupping sounds and shook in his arms. He hated her sometimes for this, this agony that she kept him in. The God of Hell reduced to a panicked husband.

"Why won't you let me go?" she whispered into his shirt. His hands tightened reflexively one her.

"Buffy," he said, "listen to me. You are never leaving. I won't let you, and you can't go. They condemned you here in exchange for a thousand repentant souls without even knowing what would happen to you. For all they cared, I could have sent you to Tartarus. Instead I made you my queen."

She looked up at him at that, her tear streaked face set and her lips trembling. Lovely. Cruel.

"I don't want it," she breathed. He looked at her hopeless, beautiful, determined face and fell in love all over again. He swooped in and kissed her, devouring her mouth before she turned away.

"Yeah," he said, "I know. Golden cage and all that. But sweetheart, like it or not, you're not going anywhere. This is your home now. Deal with it. But don't tell me you haven't realized that even in heaven, you had no freedom. You were barely coherent, trapped in a cloud of blissful unconsciousness. Nice I'm sure, but then, some of the drug addicts I've met said the same thing of LSD. You had no freedom of thought, no freedom of action. Here, all I've done is restrict your movement."

She didn't respond. Good. He didn't want her to. He stood up, easily carrying her small frame with him, and carried her from the gardens with their jeweled flowers. Up an obsidian staircase he climbed, his prize limp in his arms. He passed through the hallways until he reached their bedroom. He undressed her, limp and unresponsive in his arms, and put her to bed as one would a child. She watched him with wide and listless eyes, and something in him broke a little at that. Putting her in bed, he brushed the top of her head with his lips, then moved to her eyelids and exquisite mouth.

"I love you," he told her. "And it is the most agonizing thing I have ever experienced. Sleep. Rest. But think on what I've said. You need to accept the way things are, and learn to cope with them. I have." And with that he left her.

**Fin**

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